Fuck The System

I work with a twenty-eight year old French man from rural Quebec. He likes punk-rock and computer games. At times he has racist tendencies which can make his coworkers, like myself, a little uncomfortable.

As a 90’s punk-rocker his primary concerns are with not selling out and fucking the system. He’ll talk about this for hours and hours, until you get bored and show some kind of obvious disinterest (I slowly nudge closer and closer to my computer screen, retinas straining, hoping the physical constraints will let me get closer yet, if only to prove that I am doing this and my attention isn’t with his longwinded rant). While he talks, he idly clicks buttons on Facebook, checks the profiles of 18 year old lesbian Norwegian vampires on MySpace, plays browser based games, pays his bills online and researches the latest cellular phone models (because Rogers owes him an upgrade next month and he wants to be blinged the fuck out). He promotes underground punk shows in his spare time, the kind of raw ecstasy that’s easy to throw yourself into for a few hours, shout things like UNITE UNITE WE HAVE TO STICK TOGETHER SO WE SO WE SO WE CAN SEE THE FALL – this orgasmic current of anti-establishment sentiments is how he F’s the ol’ S.

It’s hard telling him this, so I don’t – maybe I don’t think he’ll understand, or maybe I just don’t want to have to prep him in the esoteric history of the world in a language that isn’t my first, or isn’t his first, or maybe I just pre-empt that it will lead to a lot of talking which I try my hardest to avoid – but the system that he wants to fuck isn’t exactly virgin territory. It get screwed all of the time, so much that it doesn’t even bother to get dressed anymore. The flesh around every available orifice sags, like I imagine the holes from those gap causing earrings will 30 years from now when the trend’s way out of style; you don’t need lubricant; try catching traction anywhere with your fist (seriously, try). Here’s where record execs bust a nut on their coffee break.

I remember the first time I had her: I was twelve, and high off finishing Orwell’s 1984 for the first time (the time when it isn’t marred by the intelligence you may develop with age) and I was revved up and looking to burn, and there she was, The System, looking all seductive in that short pleated skirt that hardly hid her purple thong (which was pulled half-way up her back in case you missed it underneath). What I did to her was awful, but you have to understand that I was under the hellish grip of puberty and ran the risk of having embarrassing fluid malfunction in my new khakis – I had to have my way. I’m not guilty about it, and in retrospect I’m glad I did it to see what it was like. I whistled as I did my pants back up, and she seemed completely indifferent; more worried about her studio shoot later that afternoon. See, she makes money off it, I mean, she is The System, hardcore pornos and whatnot: The System does Long Lionel and Lewd Levesque or something to that effect. She mentioned it to me when she was smoking a cigarette and reapplying her make-up, at four she had a group shoot, triple penetration – the President, the Anarchist, and the Taxpayer – and she hoped that my forcible intrusion hadn’t made her late: none of the male stars had much staying power to begin with and they’d make themselves excited when she was late and cum twice as fast.